


Fire and Ice

by coffeeandconspiracies



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anxiety, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4942993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandconspiracies/pseuds/coffeeandconspiracies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford's been having some trouble keeping his thoughts straight lately - but with everything going on, who can blame the poor guy? Takes place pre-portal incident but post-Fiddleford fallout</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice

**Author's Note:**

> This was the fic that started it all! - okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic, but it was! This was my very first prompted fic for the c&c tumblr, and, quite honestly, my personal favorite. Perhaps it was the vagueness of the prompt or the opportunity to quote Robert Frost, but something about this one just really resonated with me. Fun fact - I came up with most of it while at the super market.  
> Submitted by: haberdashing.tumblr.com  
> Prompt: "Prompt: Fire and Ice"

Ooh, this calls for an epigraph! 

> _Some say the world will end in fire,_
> 
> _Some say in ice._
> 
> _From what I’ve tasted of desire_
> 
> _I hold with those who favor fire._
> 
> _But if I had to perish twice,_
> 
> _I think I know enough of hate_
> 
> _To say that for destruction ice_
> 
> _Is also great_
> 
> _And would suffice._

* * *

 

Stanford Pines thought the world was ending.

It, of course,  _was not_. But Stanford Pines didn’t know that. He suffered from a condition called  _ **paranoia**. _

Paranoia is  _a mental condition characterized by delusions of persecution, unwarranted jealousy, or exaggerated self-importance, typically elaborated into an organized system. It may be an aspect of chronic personality disorder, of drug abuse, or of a serious condition such as schizophrenia in which the person loses touch with reality._ In the case of poor Stanford Pines, his personal state leaned more on the latter half of that definition. Not for nothing, though - this was a man who had seen some _ **shit**. _ No definition required.

In preparation for the end-of-the-world(-which-wasn’t-coming), Ford had built himself a fallout shelter. It was hidden under a tree, and could only be accessed by pulling a very complicated and high-up lever (which had to be pushed  _up,_ not pulled down). The tree would sink down, revealing a staircase in the ground, leading in a spiral to the red herring room, where Ford kept enough supplies to last him the next century or so. Behind a poster on the wall was the entrance to the REAL bunker, which was heavily booby trapped. In Ford’s opinion, one could never be too ~~paranoid~~ careful.

Ford had spent the last three days by himself down in his fortress, doing nothing but drinking coffee, mumbling to himself, and scribbling away hastily in his research journal - in invisible ink. You never know who's watching. He hadn’t slept or eaten or even used the bathroom - in fact, he didn’t even know that three days had passed. Occasionally, he would reach up to adjust his glasses, not realizing they were resting on the desk beside him. 

He was in the surveillance room, facing the screen that would show him footage of the cryo-chamber that held experiment #210 - the shapeshifter. Back in his saner days, Ford had found the shifter and raised it from an egg. When it began taking the form of his ex-assistant just to torment him and expressing violent desires, Ford had decided to freeze it. Killing it would have been more efficient, he knew, but you could only obtain limited information from a dead specimen, and besides - he had sort of grown to care for the monster. It was, after all, his lone companion. 

 _Because everybody left you._ Shut up, shifter.  _You're running out of movies._ Stop.  _You're burning up._ Well, you're freezing over - and he activated the chamber. 

For some reason, the shapeshifter had reminded him of his brother for a moment. Something it said. A saying his brother had - what was it?  _You're burning up._

He shook his head from side to side, physically trying to rid himself of the memory. Ford looked up at his empty coffee mug.  _Get more,_ part of his brain told him.  _No, it makes you worse,_ another part said. For once, the other part won. Ford stood up and got himself a glass of ice water. 

Ice, ice, ice, ice. Cold. Ice cold. The shifter is ice cold. He placed a cube in his mouth and chomped down. Crunch. Pain shot through his gums - his teeth had been sensitive as hell lately. Sensitive as hell. 

If Ford hadn’t been so terrified of setting foot outside, he might have called his mother. “Ma, Ma it’s me. Stanford. Yes, I’m fine - well, no, actually, I'm not; no one is. The world is ending, Ma. But I’ll be safe here. We can all be safe here. You should come - you and Dad should come. You and Dad and Shermie and Stan should come. Please come, Ma. Please help me.” No, no he wouldn’t do that. The bunker was safe but Ford couldn’t ask them to come. She would worry. She would worry and then she would send someone to check on him - no one could come here.  _HE_ was here. Here was Gravity Falls - Gravity Falls isn’t safe. Too dangerous. Trust no one. TRUST NO ONE. 

He thought about lighting a cigarette, but he never really smoked. His brother did.  Stan would rather burn up. Stan would rather the world end in fire. End in fire. That was a poem, wasn’t it? Robert Frost. Frost, ice. Ice cold. Ice, ice, ice …

His eyes shot towards the screen. He thought he’d seen the shapeshifter move, somehow. It had transformed itself into his own likeness, and been frozen that way. He thought he saw his double move. But that was impossible, it was frozen. It was ice. Ice, ice, ice, ice. Cold. Ice cold. He crunched another piece of ice between his overly-sensitive teeth. 

Ford had another double, someplace. Not an exact double, but close. Closer than anyone - they’d been born together. His double’s name was Stanley. Stanley, Stanley. Or was it the other way around? Which was he? Stan _ford._ Ford. That was him. Stanford. He was mad at Stanley though, for … something. 

_Science fair._

Right. He was mad at Stanley for sabotaging his science fair project, aka his chance at getting into his dream school. Dream school, make millions. Make millions and move out of New Jersey.  _You’re our ticket out of here, Stanford._ Ticket out. Fat lot of good that had done. 

Maybe Stanley could help. Maybe Stanley would come. If he couldn’t trust his own twin, who could he trust? No one. TRUST NO ONE. 

Ford began pushing hard against his temples. The headache was back - the  _voices_ were back. The world was ending. The world was ending. The world was ending  _right now._

 _“Stop,”_ he begged, and it did. 

Ford sat up a little straighter and fixed his glasses that weren’t there - this time, he realized. He put them back on. The world came into sharp clarity, and his mind began to follow. The worst was over, maybe. Maybe, maybe. Maybe he would start to think clearly again. 

 _Why am I down here?_ he thought, his brain, for the moment, was nearly back to normal.  _Oh yeah, the world is ending._ He remembered. And boom, there it goes. 

Boom, boom, boom.  _I got you, buddy!_

Fiddleford. Fiddleford was another reason he was down here. Fiddleford had tried to - to what? To  _fix_ him. To make him forget. Fiddleford and his cult - but Fiddleford was losing his marbles. _So are you._ Yes, but Fiddleford did this to himself.  _So did you._  No. No?

Maybe.

 _More coffee,_ he craved. No, no more coffee. Caffeine makes it  _worse._ Makes it worse. Self-destruction. Bad for you. Now he sounded like his mother.

_Ford, you need to sleep. _Stan, I don’t like that Carla girl._  Ford, you’ll hurt your eyes reading for too long.  _Stan, you shouldn’t smoke so much, you’ll ruin your voice._ Ford, please stop playing in places you don’t belong. Don’t run in the street. Boys, boys!_

And his brother had had a saying. What was it?

“I’d rather burn up than freeze over.”

Yeah, that was it.

_I’d rather burn up than freeze over, baby._

Whenever Ford was hesitant, whenever Stan bent the rules - whenever anything in their lives presented danger or adventure or thrills, Stan's eyes would glint with firey mischief and his mouth would curve into that crooked grin.  _I'd rather burn up than freeze over, baby._

Burn up. Burn out. Just like a cigarette. Stan would rather burn up but Ford had already frozen over. Somewhere, deep down, he knew that. He crunched another ice cube and scribbled something down. Something about  _HIM._

Ford was paranoid - scared, jumpy, suspicious. Terrified that  _HE_ was watching -  _HE;_ the triangle-man; Bill Cipher; demon. Liar. Beast. Stanford was afraid that  _HE_ was watching - and I was. 

 


End file.
